


The Final Ember

by Izamania



Series: A thousand lies and one truth [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 15:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19359628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izamania/pseuds/Izamania
Summary: my retelling of how Fingon rescued Maedhros





	The Final Ember

**Author's Note:**

> newsflash, i'm not dead

A bow, a harp, a feeling of deep anger and the faintest touch of hope.

That is what Fingon had armed himself with, a bow, crafted by Celegorm as a passing gift, the harp that Maglor had lent him, the anger of the dead at Alqualonde, of those lost on the Helcaraxe, his own anger at his cousins and the betraying flicker of hope that his closest friend was still alive. It wouldn’t be enough.

 

_ Morgoth’s clouds hung low, cloaking the shadowy peaks of Thandogorim.  _

 

He had the parting words of his brother, still bitter with anger at Elenwe dying.

He had the weary sighs of his father and the memory of blood stained sand flickering in his mind.

 

_ Orcs chanted and prisoners screamed from inside the mountains. _

 

He had hope, hope that the Valar would intercede, as frail as that was.

He had the song that echoed around in Valinor like a cacophony of bells always chiming. It was so much duller here.

 

_  Fire danced up from gaps in the ground, staining the sky blood red. _

 

He had the memories. The beautiful, dangerous memories. He had the memories of his friend,  his friend whom he loved in the wrong way, because even elves, as civilised and forward as they were, had standards.

 

Fingon was bold, brave and determined. 

He was also breaking his father's truce with the feanorians. 

 

But he’d seen the brothers, only five out of seven still there, all of them now fallen far from the palace and the lofty heights of civilisation.

 

Maglor spent his time between carrying out his duties as newly crowned crown prince and pouring over languages, as if he hoped to scavenge some glimmer of the old Feanor, when he was considered the expert on linguistics, and not a warped, distorted shadow of the former prince.

 

Celegorm was often away with Huan, hunting. He’d come back with a brace of fowl slung over his shoulder and a foul mood etched on his features. He still had a portrait of Ardhel, lovingly rendered and even his once closest friend and brother Curufin avoided him, out of sheer disdain for the bitter words that flew whenever they were together.

 

As for Curufin, well he was fighting his conscience every day that he stood on Feanors left, the execution sword safely in its scabbard, but still in his mind. He had no fondness for this world anymore but he did not want to go back into the dark halls of Mandos, face the Valar or be entombed in the void for all eternity.

 

Caranthir had become obsessed with money. He spent day after day charting and approximating values, surrounded by the swish-scratch of pens as they hastened to do his bidding. He put his full attention into anything that could draw him from the ring of flags mounted above his father’s abode and the fact that two of the eight flew at half mast.

 

Amros was broken. It was the only way to describe him. A gaping wound torn into his mind. Both of the twins had been unusually good at mind-to-mind speech but no one had ever bothered to teach them how to dull or break the bond between them.  In the end, what was meant as a mercy became a poison.

 

They did nothing, trapped in their own guilt, and, if Fingon was honest, he didn’t think they wanted Maedhros to return. If he did, they would all have to face the truth that they had been avoiding for so long.

 

Standing outside Thandogorim was like being back in exams, maybe it wasn’t the best simile but he still felt the same fear. The mountains were the hooded maiar, looking down on him as they poised their questions, only this time there wasn’t an audience, only this time there wasn’t a tall red-head watching him from the crowd.

 

He breathed in and started climbing. 

  
  


He was brave.

He was a fool for believing.

He was alone; he wouldn’t make it.

_ He was brave. _

He would do it.

 

So as he walked along the narrow winding pathways, he began to sing. First it was a Teleri ballad about the sea-song that all Teleri knew, then a soft melody with no real meaning, then a nonsensical rhyme that was used as preparation before speeches. The last song he sang was one that was written by Maglor for the  centenary of the Coming to Valinor. It spoke of light through the darkness, of new hope springing anew, of death and misery. 

 

He did not expect to hear an echo of the song, at first ragged and horse but it was there, so he shouted his friends name to the heavens and cried with joy upon hearing an almost whisper of “Fingon” thrown back at him, so he looked up to meet Maedhros’s eyes. 

 

He had done it. 

There was no way up- but he had done it.

 

And something inside him which had been filled with warmth just moments ago at the whisper of death that his cousin pleaded for shattered and broken. His brave, bold cousin who reasoned and faced any obstacle was pleading for death, and so it was that Fingon fitted an arrow to the bow, looked down the shaft.

 

Down the shaft to the wickedly sharp end, down the shaft to the end of all the foreseeable roads.

 

He prayed- in part for a swift, true flight, but also for help, for some mercy from the Valar.

 

He let go of the string.

  
  
  
  


The arrow flew.

  
  
  


Flew into ash.

A screeching cry from the air- an eagle.

And he climbed up on to its back and it flew, finally seeming to hover by Maedhros.

But the chain could not be broken by his sword, or the lock picked. And once again his cousin cried for death.

 

He was brave.

He could do this.

He was a coward- 

He couldn’t

 

He swung the sword, wincing as it slashed through bone, caught his cousin and they flew.

 

Some part of him knew that it would never be the same, that death would have, in many ways, been better. After all, even the best medicines can become the deadliest poisons.


End file.
